


Rain won't make a difference

by mornmeril



Series: Kink Meme Fills/Prompt Me [6]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Joly & Bossuet brotp, M/M, Mentions of Melancholia, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Romance, a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:51:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mornmeril/pseuds/mornmeril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <a href="http://juliegris.tumblr.com">Julie</a>, who wanted Joly/Jehan.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Joly?” Jehan asks in his smooth, quiet voice, regarding him curiously. His braid is slightly dishevelled, a few shorter strands around his ears curling slightly in the damp air. “You okay? What are you doing here?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Joly fumbles a little with the button he’s been playing with on his coat and nearly manages to rip it off in the process.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“N-Nothing,” he says and swallows, trying to compose himself. He hasn’t really stuttered since he was a child, and he certainly doesn’t want to start again now. “Just waiting for the rain to stop,” he continues weakly.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain won't make a difference

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Julie](http://juliegris.tumblr.com). She wanted Joly/Jehan and I did my best to serve XD. You should also check out[her FanArt](http://juliegris.tumblr.com/tagged/les-mis-fanart), because it's amazing! 
> 
> I hadn't really planned on posting this here, but a lovely anon asked me to, so here it is. It's a slightly cleaned up version and was originally posted as a prompt fill [here on my tumblr](http://mornmeril.tumblr.com/post/64633917005/tackles-and-clings-oh-my-dear-sweet-baby-jesus-i-love) under the name _Umbrella_ , which was horribly lame.
> 
> The current title isn't much better and was inspired by these lines from _A farewell to Arms_ by Ernest Hemingway:
> 
> _“And you'll always love me won't you?_  
>  Yes  
> And the rain won't make any difference?   
> No” 

* * *

There are many ways one could begin this story. It could start with a first meeting, a first exchange of words or smiles. It could begin with the realisation of friendship or of shared adrenaline and euphoria over a protest.

But really, where it begins, is on a miserable day in autumn; the sky heavy with clouds and rain sheeting onto the pavement, creating huge puddles and small rivers.

It begins when Joly forgets his umbrella.

*

 It’s cold, but probably not as cold as Joly feels, huddled deeply into his scarf and coat, pressed into the doorway of a building he’s never really noticed before. His hands, instead of buried deeply in his pockets, are twitching nervously and had his mouth not been hidden behind the scarf, he would’ve been biting at his nails.

He doesn’t really know how long it’s been since the first drops started falling, but it must’ve been a while. The corner he’s squeezed himself into is not the best protection, but it keeps him dry enough. His thoughts keep doing the same, tiring loop over and over and over again. All he can think of, all he’s thought of since this morning after he’d jumped on the metro, is that he forgot his umbrella. He forgot his umbrella, he never forgets his umbrella, how could he have forgotten his umbrella?

Joly huffs, meaning for it to be a sound of annoyance, but it comes out shaky and desperate instead. It’s been a while since he’s been this bad, but it probably shouldn’t come as a surprise, since the day that he forgot to take the umbrella he so obsessively carries around everyday, is the day when it actually, unexpectedly starts to rain.

He’s taken out and re-pocketed his phone exactly fourteen times since this whole business started, but the only text he’d sent had remained unanswered. Knowing Bossuet, he’s probably forgotten his phone at home, or maybe even broken it. One never knows with him, not even Joly, even though they’ve known each other for years and been best friends just as long.

He could text someone else, of course, it’s not that he’s lacking friends. Grantaire would be his next option, because Grantaire would come rescue him immediately and without asking questions or commenting on his state of mind. But even so, Joly is still hesitating, thinks he can wait at least another half an hour before he gets desperate enough to expose himself in such a way, even if Grantaire wouldn’t judge him.

Bossuet is the only one who’s known Joly long enough, and well enough, to be aware of the extent of his condition. It’s not as bad as it could be, but not as easily shrugged off either. Mostly, Bossuet knows because he lives with Joly and there’s hardly a way for Joly to conceal the fact that he scrubs their kitchen twice a day - more than that, if he’s distressed - or that seeing the door to the kitchen closed freaks him out enough to make him shake. There’s a few more things like these, but probably not quite as bad and then there’s the few things all their friends know about, but mostly smile off as Joly just being Joly. The nail-biting is among those, something all of them have been trying very hard to dissuade him from, and the hypochondria, of course, which he knows is seen as one of his characteristic features.

Joly is relieved; truly, honestly grateful that no one but Bossuet knows - and probably Grantaire, because Grantaire is just that ridiculously clever and observant, but Joly knows he wouldn’t say anything, not even to Enjolras. And Joly really, really doesn’t want anyone else to know. It’s enough that he himself knows, that he has to live with it - has had to live with it all his life. He much rather have his friends joke about his hypochondria and constant fretting over their well-being, than realise that Joly only does it because he keeps having horrible visions of them dying in unrealistically gruesome ways. He happily laughs with them, the shaking contained within his chest and making him feel as though his heart is rattling around behind his ribcage, but thankfully hidden and invisible.

So when Jehan suddenly materialises in front of him, his bright, clashing clothes like a beacon in the dreary weather and holding an enormous, flowery umbrella, Joly isn’t really sure if it’s relief or horror weakening his knees.

“Joly?” Jehan asks in his smooth, quiet voice, regarding him curiously. His braid is slightly dishevelled, a few shorter strands around his ears curling slightly in the damp air. “You okay? What are you doing here?”

Joly fumbles a little with the button he’s been playing with on his coat and nearly manages to rip it off in the process.

“N-Nothing,” he says and swallows, trying to compose himself. He hasn’t really stuttered since he was a child, and he certainly doesn’t want to start again now. “Just waiting for the rain to stop,” he continues weakly.

Jehan looks neither bewildered, not sympathetic, rather manages some form of hybrid between the two.

“Would you like to come with me?” he asks. “I’ll make you some tea and you can warm up, and then we can call someone to pick you up. How does that sound?”

Joly relaxes a little. “Thank you, that’s sounds great actually.”

He manages a smile and Jehan smiles back.

*

Jehan’s umbrella is more than big enough for both of them, especially as Jehan is one of the tiniest people Joly knows. If he hadn’t seen him punch someone’s nose bloody on more than one occasion, he really would think a gust of wind could knock him over. Joly, about a head taller than Jehan, couldn’t punch anyone to save his life, would probably end up with a broken hand or worse if he tried.

The walk to Jehan’s flat isn’t far and Joly realises, crowded in close against Jehan’s warmth, that he’s never actually been there before. They usually meet at Courfeyrac and Marius’ flat, or at Enjolras and Combeferre’s. He’s been to what Grantaire calls ‘his shithole’ more times than he can count, used to fuss over Grantaire when he was still drinking and in various states of inebriation. Thankfully, that isn’t necessary anymore and Joly much prefers just popping in for a social call, which mostly ends with him cleaning the kitchen. Grantaire never says anything about it, just lets Joly flit around the tiny kitchenette and scrub to his heart’s content. Grantaire usually ends up doodling in his sketchpad, chatting, while Joly does things like organise the contents of his cupboards alphabetically.

Jehan unlocks the door to the building and ushers Joly inside. Joly watches him shake out the umbrella, before closing it and stepping inside as well.

The only other person with a family richer than Jehan’s, is Enjolras. But unlike Enjolras, Jehan’s parents are the sweetest people Joly’s ever met. They’d come by the Musain one evening to drop something off for Jehan, which is how everyone knows them. They aren’t around much, however, according to Jehan, because they like to travel and spend most of their time in Nice, where they own a second home.

Joly is still a little surprised, though, when he steps into Jehan’s flat and finds it much bigger than he’s imagined. Who, after all, can afford a two bedroom flat complete with a balcony and an amazing view in the centre of Paris these days?

“Just make yourself comfortable, I’m just going to dump the umbrella in the tub, then I’ll make us some tea, okay?” Jehan says as he toes off his shoes and shrugs off his jacket.

Joly nods and watches him go, before picking up the jacket and hanging it up neatly alongside his coat.

The living room is big and airy, but cozy all the same. There’s an abundance of brightly coloured, ornate pillows and rugs, but other than that, the colours are surprisingly harmonious. There’s a flat screen on one wall, huge windows at the other and the remaining space is all bookshelves stuffed to the brink. The coffee table is also overflowing with them, an old white MacBook with flowery stickers balanced precariously at the very edge.

Joly stares at the mess, is still staring at it when Jehan emerges from what has to be the bathroom and passes him by on his way to the kitchen.

“If you want to have a look, go right ahead,” Jehan says, briefly patting Joly’s arm as he goes. It leaves a strange, tingling sensation behind.

Having received permission, Joly swoops in and, instead of reading the titles, immediately starts forming neat piles, organising the books according to size. He’s almost through, when his fingers bump into a pack of sheets, clipped together at the top on one corner. It’s a short story, he realises, and it has Jehan’s name on it. Joly starts reading, almost on reflex, and is completely enraptured form the very first line.

“Do you like it?”

Joly startles and looks up. He’d been so caught up in the story that he missed Jehan’s return. Jehan smiles at him and puts down a steaming cup in front of him. Joly carefully puts down the stack of papers and gratefully picks up the cup, warming his still frozen fingers.

“It’s brilliant,” he says, blowing at the tea. “I didn’t know you wrote prose.”

Jehan shrugs, his smile turning almost shy, and tucks his feet beneath his body. “I like trying out new things. Besides, the master I’m doing requires us to write in different forms and media. It’s quite exciting, really. And challenging.”

It hits Joly, then, that while Jehan is close with everyone, no one is actually close to Jehan. It’s a shockingly depressing thought and immediately makes Joly feel like the worst friend in the universe.

“Tell me about it,” is therefore what Joly blurts out without thinking. “Your writing, I mean. And your masters. I’d like to hear more about it.”

Jehan looks genuinely surprised, which only makes Joly feel worse.

“Really?”

Joly puts down the tea and tucks himself further into the soft cushions of the couch, a mirror image of Jehan himself.

“Really.”

So Jehan does. He talks and Joly listens and not for a moment does he have to fake interest. Joly has never heard Jehan talk like this before, or talk this much in one go at all, really. He’s usually content just sitting there and listening to the others converse, only throwing in a comment here or there. Joly wonders if it’s because Jehan prefers to talk when there’s not so many people listening, or if it’s because no one’s actually encouraged him like this before. Joly’s heart clenches at that last thought.

He’s so invested in his conversation with Jehan, that he doesn’t even notice when it starts getting dark outside and it’s only when his phone rings that he looks up and realises it.

“Joly, where are you?” Bossuet asks the second Joly picks up, sounding slightly frantic. “Please tell me you’re not still outside!”

Joly glances out through one of the big windows, seeing raindrops chasing each other down the glass. It still hasn’t stopped.

“I’m alright,” Joly says hastily. “I’m with Jehan.”

Bossuet sighs, relieved. “Good,” he says. “That’s good. Christ, you had me worried. I forgot my phone at home and we only just got in. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Musichetta’s still here, so we can come pick you up if you like,” Bossuet says. Musichetta is one of the few people in their group that own a car.

Joly nods, then catches himself when he remembers that Bossuet can’t see it. “Yes, thank you. I’d really appreciate that.”

Bossuet laughs and Joly can tell he’s back to his usual, cheerfully relaxed self. “I’m the horrible best friend who wasn’t there when you needed me, it’s the least I can do.”

“Thank you anyway.”

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

“See you then,” Joly says and hangs up. He looks at Jehan. “Bossuet and Musichetta are coming to pick me up.”

Jehan smiles. “Good.” He bites his lip, looking suddenly unsure. “Joly? Can I ask you something?”

Joly smiles nervously, slightly uneasy with the sudden change in mood. “Of course.”

“You know that thing with Musichetta? Are you really alright that she’s with Bossuet now?” 

Joly feels his eyes widen slightly in surprise, completely thrown by the unexpected question. Jehan must’ve thought that it meant he’s overstepped some line, because he looks distinctly panicked when he immediately keeps talking.

“I’m sorry, forget I asked. I didn’t mean to pry, I was just curious, I-”

“It’s alright,” Joly cuts in, laughing a little. “I don’t mind talking about it. What, have you all been wondering about this and were afraid to ask?” Jehan doesn’t have to answer for Joly to see that it’s true, his blush is answer enough. Joly laughs a little harder, but takes pity on Jehan and reaches out to give his arm a gentle squeeze as he goes on. “It’s very sweet that you were all so worried, but I think I’ll have to disappoint you. There’s no hidden drama or anything. I really don’t mind that they’re together now. Me and Musichetta,” Joly breaks off for a moment, looking for the right words and Jehan doesn’t interrupt, just waits him out patiently. “We weren’t anything serious. We really only went out a couple of times and when I introduced her to Bossuet I could tell that he was much better suited for her than I could ever be. And I don’t…I don’t really think I was ready for a relationship.”

Joly doesn’t know if he’ll ever really be ready. He can’t imagine anyone wanting him the way he is, compulsions and all.

Jehan puts a hand on his knee, pressing it gently. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Joly shivers a little, even as warmth bursts inside his chest.

He’s very careful not to dislodge Jehan’s hand until Bossuet arrives to take him home.

*

The next day, when they all come together for a movie night at Courf and Marius’ place, Joly sits next to Jehan and asks him for things he’s written. Jehan beams at him and promises to email him some short stories and even a screenplay that was part of his latest assignment.

When Joly comes home that night, he only cleans the kitchen once, then sits down and starts reading.

*

**Joly:** _i finished reading what you sent me. it’s all really amazing stuff, Jehan._

**Jehan:** _:):):)_

**Jehan:** _i’m glad you liked it!_

**Joly:** _i really did. is there more?_

**Jehan:** _seriously?_

**Joly:** _yes, seriously. i told you it’s amazing._

**Joly:** _i mean it._

**Jehan:** _:D_

**Jehan:** _there’s always more. i never stop writing after all ;). i can drop off some printed out stuff and a book of handwritten poems. interested?_

**Joly:** _yes! but i have the graveyard shift tonight at the hospital._

**Jehan:** _that’s okay. i’ll come by, bring some coffee?_

**Joly:** _you’re the best!_

**Jehan:** _see you later x._

*

“Christ, but the weather’s miserable,” Jehan says as he enters, carrying the same flowery umbrella as the other day and a bag from the coffee shop. He shivers.

Joly immediately takes the bag and the dripping umbrella and tugs him over to the closest radiator.

“You didn’t get wet, did you?” he asks, concern immediately tightening his chest.

Jehan smiles at him, soft and reassuring. “I’m fine, Joly. Don’t worry.”

_I always worry,_ Joly thinks, but doesn’t say it. Instead he digs out the two coffees and hands the one with Jehan’s name over.

Jehan unslings his messenger bag and sheds his jacket, before gratefully accepting the paper cup.

“How was your day?” Joly asks as he takes a sip from his own coffee.

Jehan twists the end of his braid around his finger. “Not as productive as I would’ve liked, I’m afraid.” He frowns a little at his cup. “We’re doing some very modern approaches of different genres at the moment and I’m just not very good at it. I’ve always been more of a classical type. I like old things and some form of structure that’s still understandable. I just don’t really see the point of pouring in so much bizarreness that your meaning’s completely lost. And I mean _completely_ lost. It doesn’t have to be all spelled out or anything and interpretation is important but- I’m sorry, I’m rambling.”

Joly shakes his head. “No, no, go on.”

Jehan smiles again and Joly is pleased to see the frown has disappeared. “You’re too good to me, letting me go on about this stuff. I usually only bother Grantaire or Feuilly with it, because they’re artists and kind of get where I’m coming from.”

Joly is at once happy and horribly disappointed. He’s sincerely glad to hear that Jehan does actually talk about this with someone, but also weirdly jealous that apparently Joly isn’t his first choice. The thought is terribly confusing and immediately makes Joly squirmy inside. He picks at the plastic lid of his cup to occupy his fingers.

“I can’t say that I always understand everything, but I do like to listen.” He shrugs, feeling awkward. “I don’t have a single artistic bone in my body, but I like to read. And I like Grantaire’s paintings.”

“Grantaire’s amazing,” Jehan says. “I’ve been trying to talk him into making some illustrations for one of my poetry books, but you know ‘Aire. He keeps saying he’s not good enough. I really don’t know what else to do to convince him.”

Joly does know what Grantaire’s like. “I’ll talk to him about it, maybe I can get through to him.”

Jehan squeals a little and throws an arm around him, squeezing Joly in a one-armed hug. “Thank you!”

He’s close enough for Joly to be able to inhale the sweet smell of flowers clinging to his hair and something else, something distinctly fruity. Joly inhales without thinking, his nose dangerously close to burying itself in Jehan’s braid. He hastily turns his head away and Jehan lets him go. He’s pink cheeked and won’t meet Joly’s eyes for a moment.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

Joly feels suddenly cold, even with the radiator right beside him. He wishes he had the courage to put down the coffee and hug Jehan properly, but instead his fingers feel even twitchier and he thinks about scrubbing the kitchen and re-doing the herb-index as soon as he gets home.

“Tell me more about that assignment,” Joly says, trying to keep from picturing the rack with his bottled herbs.

Jehan twists his braid again, rather more viciously this time, but complies. Joly breathes a sign of relief as he focuses on Jehan’s words, the herbs retreating to the back of his mind.

*

When he comes home in the early hours of the morning, Joly immediately sets out for the kitchen and starts cleaning. He’s still arranging herbs when Bossuet gets up a few hours later.

*

“Are you alright?”

Joly looks up from where he’s been polishing the kitchen sink, finding Bossuet frowning in the doorway.

Joly looks at the gleaming sink, at his distorted reflection in the tap. “I’m fine,” he tells his strangely formed head, frowning a little.

Bossuet sighs and steps fully into the kitchen, cursing quietly when he stubs his toe on the table-leg, before sitting down in one of the chairs.

“It’s just that I’ve never seen the kitchen this clean before, and that’s saying something.”

Joly finally abandons the cloth he’s been using, folding it neatly as he thinks about what to say to that. He ends up sitting down opposite Bossuet without having said anything at all.

Bossuet reaches for his hand. It’s red from scrubbing, the skin wrinkled from the water.

“I just want to know if there’s anything I can do,” Bossuet says gently. “Or if there’s anything you’d like to talk about. I know how you worry about everyone, but my job is to worry about you, remember?”

Joly smiles and squeezes his hand. “I know.” He lets go and tucks his hand into the crook of his arm. “But I’m fine. Really.”

Bossuet gives him another searching look, but doesn’t pry. “Alright. You know where to find me if that answer changes.”

Joly thinks about Jehan and the strange tingling under his skin whenever they touch, or the way his heart leaps in his chest only to make him feel as though his insides are about to climb out of him. He doesn’t say any of it, though. Just smiles again and forces himself to keep from flinging open the cupboards and re-organising their food.

*

At the next meeting of Les Amis, Jehan slides into the seat next to Joly and when Joly brings his finger to his mouth to sink his teeth into the nail, Jehan catches his hand with his own and holds on. Joly doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t take it back. Their fingers end up twined together.

*

Joly frowns down at his phone, contemplating if it’s worth re-dialling Jehan’s number for the tenth time in a row only to have it go straight to voice-mail. He calls Grantaire instead.

“Hello, Jollly,” Grantaire sings happily in greeting. Joly smiles despite himself. “What can I do for you on this- well, not so fine day. Seriously, you’d think we’ve suddenly been transported to England, what with the never-ending rain. We’ll need an ark soon, or we’re all going to drown.”

Joly laughs. “You’re an atheist, but you’re thinking of building an ark?”

“To be fair, it’ll probably end up looking more like those things from _2012_.”

Joly groans. “I can’t believe Courf made us watch that movie, Jesus.”

Grantaire sighs dramatically. “Yeah, it was bad, wasn’t it.”

“I thought Enjolras was going to strangle him.”

Grantaire snickers. “He wouldn’t be Enjolras if he didn’t look like he wanted to strangle people every other minute.”

Joly conceded that point. “Actually, I was wondering if you’ve heard anything from Jehan?”

If Grantaire is curious about Joly’s sudden attachment to Jehan, and he’s bound to have noticed because Grantaire notices everything, he doesn’t mention it.

“He’s at home, I think,” Grantaire says. “Last time I talked to him he seemed pretty down. I think he’s in one of his artistic funks. We all get them - all of us artists anyway. He’ll probably stay locked up for a day or two.”

Joly’s chest is already tight with worry. “Do you think he’ll let me in if I stop by his flat?”

Grantaire makes a humming noise. “Maybe. You’ll have to try and see.”

“Thanks, ‘Aire, I’ll do that,” Joly says. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“See you,” Grantaire says. “And Joly? Try not to worry too much, okay?”

“Okay.”

* 

Despite the promise, Joly is almost in full-on fretting mode. He walks to the front door and back to the kitchen six times, before he finally decides that yes, he’ll make Jehan some soup before he goes. If he’s really in one of his melancholy moods, he’ll hardly feel up to cooking something himself and Joly loves making food for his friends, it makes him feel needed and as though he’s playing a part in keeping them healthy and happy.

So he makes the soup, then quickly tidies the kitchen, then scribbles a note on the magnetic pad on the fridge for Bossuet, and then he’s out the door.

It really is still miserable outside and Joly clutches the container with the soup close to his chest, both for warmth and to keep it safe, as he trudges to the metro station.

He arrives at Jehan’s flat still mostly dry, but shivering. He hits the buzzer next to Jehan’s name and hopes.

It takes a while, but the intercom crackles eventually.

“Yes?” Jehan asks, sounding tired despite the tinny quality to his voice.

“It’s me,” Joly says and feels immediately stupid. “It’s Joly,” he amends hastily. “I brought you some soup.”

Jehan doesn’t answer, but the buzzing of the door follows anyway and Joly gratefully ducks inside.

Jehan looks even more tired than he sounded, dressed in wrinkled pyjamas and with his braid almost completely unravelled. His eyes are red-rimmed and his face pale, making his freckles stand out in sharp contrast. Joly digs his fingers into the container in his hands, his breath shortening in alarm and his head already rattling off a whole list of diseases that would fit Jehan’s symptoms.

“I’m sorry about dropping by unannounced, but I couldn’t reach you on the phone,” Joly babbles as he steps inside.

Jehan relieves him of the soup and gives him a tiny smile, barely enough to lift the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t mind,” Jehan says quietly. “But I’m not very good company at the moment.”

“I don’t mind,” Joly echoes, fumbling slightly with his coat before he gets it off and hangs it up, brushing it down once it’s on the hook.

He trails Jehan into the living room, then the kitchen.

“How are you feeling?” Joly inquires worriedly. “If you haven’t eaten anything yet, you should.”

Jehan obediently takes out the container, unscrews the lid and pours some in a bowl. He’s even more quiet than usual and that worries Joly too. He watches Jehan eat, chewing at his thumb nail until Jehan reaches over and takes his hand.

“It’s very good,” he says gently. “Thank you.”

Joly clutches his hand and gives him a nervous smile. “It’s nothing.”

Jehan ends up abandoning the plate right there on the breakfast bar and Joly has to force himself not to lunge for it to put it away. But Jehan’s grip on his hand is warm and sure as he leads Joly back into the living room. They don’t stop there and Joly’s heart is suddenly very determined to thump its way out of his chest as they carry on to Jehan’s bedroom.

There’s a pile of at least four duvets and so many pillows they’re hard to count. Abandoned tea-cups litter the night stands and books are piled on top of them, on the floor and some are even peeking out from between the sheets. Jehan releases Joly’s hand and crawls straight back into the mountain.

“I’m sorry for the mess,” Jehan says, no doubt taking in Joly’s slightly pinched expression. It’s surprisingly easy to ignore the state of the room and focus back on Jehan. “C’mon, sit down.”

Joly hesitantly lowers himself to perch on the bedside. Jehan gives a small, exasperated smile, then leans over to grab Joly’s arm and tug him fully onto the bed and straight into the cocoon of duvets.

“Come here,” he says softly. “You must be freezing. The weather’s awful.”

It’s true, so Joly doesn’t protest. Or rather, his breath is so tightly stuck in his throat that he can’t protest. But when Jehan curls into his side without comment, Joly instinctively wraps his arms around him, less like a friendly gesture and more like a proper embrace. Jehan sighs into his chest.

“I’m glad you came,” he murmurs.

Joly lowers his head and presses his nose into Jehan’s sweet smelling hair.

“Me too.”

*

Jehan ends up falling asleep tucked into Joly’s arms and with the fingers of his left hand curled into the fabric of Joly’s shirt. Joly almost falls asleep with him, but manages to stop himself just in time. He doesn’t do very well waking up in strange places, so instead of curling up with Jehan, warm and irresistibly close, he starts carefully squirming out from underneath him. Jehan frowns and makes a displeased sound, but when Joly shushes him and brushes a hand over his forehead, he quiets again.

Joly tucks him in, then quietly starts collecting the books and putting them in order. Then he takes the assortment of cups into the kitchen. He washes the dishes, ignoring the dishwasher, and scrubs the already mostly clean kitchen to perfection. He stops himself from opening any cupboards, but makes a fresh pot of tea and carries it to Jehan’s bedroom with a new cup. He checks his watch and finds it already later than he’d intended.

Hesitating for a moment at Jehan’s bedside, Joly looks at his sleeping face, his heart clenching pathetically as he helplessly stares on. He’s so beautiful, Joly thinks. Of course he is, it’s not like Joly hadn’t noticed it before. But lately, lately it’s been different and Joly is rather tired of feeling nervous and awkward inside his own head.

Quickly, before he can change his mind, Joly bends down to brush a fleeting kiss to Jehan’s forehead, before fleeing the flat.

*

“I think I’m in love with Jehan.”

Bossuet chokes and manages to spray the entire kitchen-table with coffee. He coughs, then coughs some more.

Joly rushes over to pat his back, frowning in concern.

“I’m sorry, are you alright?” He quickly reaches over and snags a glass of water from the counter.

Bossuet takes it and gulps down half of it in one go.

“What,” he finally croaks out and it’s not a question.

Joly bites at his nails, then turns to walk to the sink, turns back to Bossuet, then back to the sink and quickly retrieves a cloth, which he uses to wipe down the table.

“You think you’re in love with Jehan,” Bossuet repeats slowly. “You think? Or you know?”

Joly wipes some more. “I think.” He frowns. “No, I know.” He catches Bossuet’s raised eyebrow and abruptly abandons the cloth, sinking down next to him in a chair. “I’m in love with Jehan.”

Bossuet takes an audible breath, shifts in his chair, bangs his elbow and curses. Joly giggles nervously.

“Okay,” Bossuet says, rubbing his elbow. “Okay. When did that happen, exactly?”

Joly wrings the cloth in his hands. It smells of coffee. 

“I don’t know,” he says softly. “A while ago, I suppose?”

Bossuet gently tugs the cloth from his fingers and offers his hand instead. Joly takes it, clutching it gratefully.

“Does this have anything to do with him taking you home a few weeks ago?”

Joly chews on his lip. “I never even realised that we’d never really talked before, you know? It was strange, but-but good strange. Like getting to know him all over again. Does that sound stupid? It sounds stupid, doesn’t it.”

Bossuet squeezed his hand. “It doesn’t sound stupid,” he assures him softly. “What about Jehan? Have you talked to him about this?”

Joly shakes his head, feeling a little ill with the amount of fluttering going on inside his chest and stomach.

“I don’t know what to say. What am I supposed to say? We’ve known each other for almost five years!”

Bossuet purses his lips. “It’s not like everyone else in the group immediately fessed up to their feelings and rode into the sunset.”

Joly thinks of Grantaire and Enjolras, then of Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “That’s true, I suppose.” He pauses, then looks at Bossuet. “Do you think he could like me back?”

Bossuet sighs and shrugs a little helplessly. “I don’t really know, to be honest. Jehan’s one of those people that are all smiling and open, but if you actually stop to think about it you’ve got no clue what they’re actually thinking or feeling.”

Joly frowns. “That’s not very encouraging.”

“I’m sorry.” Bossuet’s smile says as much. “I don’t think there’s any other way but to ask him. And really, I can imagine a lot of people that’d be much worse in the face of a love confession.”

They exchange a look, then laugh when it’s clear they’re both thinking about Enjolras.

“So you really think I should just tell him?” Joly asks doubtfully. “And then what? I’d be terrible in a relationship, I’d drive him up the wall!”

Bossuet rolls his eyes. “You’re an amazing person, Joly, so stop talking nonsense. And I really don’t think there’s a lot of things able to drive Jehan up a wall. He’s so sweet and understanding about everything, I doubt he’ll mind if you clean his kitchen and start labelling and organising his food.”

Joly isn’t convinced. “I don’t know…”

“Look,” Bossuet says, leaning forward in his chair and squeezing Joly’s hand once more. “Don’t stress yourself, alright? Just spend some more time with him, see how he reacts to you, that sort of thing. And if you feel up for it, and it seems like the right moment, you can tell him.”

Joly can’t imagine a moment like that ever happening, but he nods anyway.

*

In the end, Joly doesn’t have to say anything.

*

It’s not at all uncommon for one of their protests to turn into a riot and it’s not even the worst riot Joly’s ever found himself caught in. But this time, it ends with Grantaire bleeding profusely from a head wound after protecting Enjolras and Joly will never get used to seeing his friends injured. He’s not unconscious, thank god, and the scans at the hospital all come up clean.

Enjolras is a pacing thundercloud, snapping at everyone, and Combeferre is barely able to hold him together long enough until they finally release Grantaire. Joly doesn’t blame him.

As soon as he emerges from doctor mode, he feels ready to climb out of his skin and he’s managed to bite one of his thumb nails bloody by the time they get home. Bossuet knows better than to stop him when he rushes off to the kitchen, yanking out his favourite cleaning agent and nearly upending it on the counter in front of him. He scrubs furiously, inhaling sharp lemon, then scrubs some more. He can still feel Grantaire’s blood sticking to his hands, almost sees it drenching the counter in front of him. He scrubs hard enough to hurt, his bleeding nail burning viciously.

Bossuet tries talking to him, says something gentle and faintly desperate from the doorway, but Joly doesn’t hear him over the rushing in his ears.

He’s moved on from the counters to the sink, when a slender hand catches his own, surprisingly firm, but not unkind, forcing Joly to still his movements.

Joly looks up and sucks in a sharp breath of surprise when he finds Jehan right there, close enough for him to feel his warmth, close enough for Jehan’s breath to brush his skin.

Jehan gently pries the sponge from his hand, skin irritated and sore, and Joly lets him, watches as Jehan runs his hand under the tap to wash off lemony suds. The water is cool and pleasant on his abused skin.

“You should wear gloves when you do that,” are Jehan’s first words, his voice as soft and smooth as ever.

Joly stares at him. “I don’t like the feel of them,” he says and even to his own ears, it sounds a little hollow, a little automatic. “I wear them enough at the hospital.”

Jehan shuts off the tab and grabs a dish-towel, gently drying Joly’s hands.

“How about we lie down for a minute,” Jehan says, rubbing an absent caress along Joly’s arms. “And you can finish this in a little while.”

If Joly had looked at the still soaped up sink and sponge, he wouldn’t have been able to leave. But as it is, he looks only at Jehan and doesn’t protest when he’s led from the kitchen and into his own room. Jehan gently pushes him down to sit on the edge of the bed, then kneels beside him. He gently cups Joly’s face between warm palms.

“It’s alright now,” he murmurs, brushing first his thumb, then his lips against Joly’s cheek. “We’re all alright. And Grantaire’s back home with Enjolras, safe and sound.”

Joly makes an unidentifiable noise, something pathetic sounding between a whimper and a sob, and leans into Jehan until their foreheads are pressed together.

“I lost sight of you,” Joly confesses, voice strained and frayed around the edges. “It scared me.”

“I know.” Jehan nuzzles him softly. “It scared me, too.”

They sit like that for a long moment, breathing each others air and Joly slowly, slowly starts feeling like himself again. He’s trembling, he realises, and his thumb nail starts burning again.

“I’m a mess,” he says, not a little desperate.

Jehan draws back far enough to look at him and gently brushes Joly’s fringe from his brow. “It’s okay. We’re all our own versions of a mess.”

Joly smiles weakly. “Bossuet said that you wouldn’t mind if I scrubbed your kitchen and labelled your food.”

Jehan shifts a little, then winds his arms around Joly’s shoulders and settles in his lap. Joly hugs him close, holding on maybe a little tighter than is comfortable.

“You can clean, label and re-organise every one of my possession, if that’s what makes you happy,” Jehan murmurs, one of his hands threading through Joly’s hair. Joly mirrors him and sinks his fingers into Jehan’s soft, soft braid.

“I hope you mean that,” Joly mutters, looking into Jehan’s eyes. “Because it might actually happen.”

Jehan leans in, hot breath against Joly’s lips. “I mean it.”

And then he kisses him and it’s soft and slow and Joly makes another strange noise, before he surges forward and kisses back. When he licks into Jehan’s mouth, he tastes just as sweet as he smells and the breathy moan that spills from his lips when their tongues touch, sends a shiver along Joly’s spine.

*

Joly ends up not finishing the kitchen that night, but when he gets up the following morning to make breakfast, Jehan watches him with a smile. And after they’ve finished eating and Joly starts cleaning, Jehan keeps on watching, and smiling, and Joly has never felt more at peace with himself that in that moment.

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to prompt me, you can find out how [here](http://mornmeril.tumblr.com/promptguidelines).


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